Pink Flavored Wish Glitter
by madame.alexandra
Summary: Tony wakes up in the wrong body, in a weird place. [absolute crack!]


_a/n: i'm really sorry, there's absolutely no excuse for this at all, i should be arrested and put in a straightjacket - i can only tell you that i watched freaky friday tonight and - but really, there's no excuse, i can't even justify this a little bit._

_-also, this is 110% dedicated to Mckenzie. _

* * *

There was an obnoxious alarm blaring vaguely and mushily in the distance_—mushily_ because it was pulling him out of that foggy realm of half-wakefulness, so everything felt sort of _mushy_—actually everything felt sort of off-kilter, like these weird, girly silk sheets he was sleeping on—and that wasn't the sound his alarm made, his was the Magnum theme, and this was just dull, mind-numbing beeping—

He groaned and pulled a pillow over his head, reaching under him for his cell phone—he came up empty and swore lazily into the pillow, whining to himself—confused, and still half-asleep, he tried the bedside table—and his fist collided with a real alarm clock, which he accidentally knocked onto the floor—

Eh, at least it stopped blaring.

He grumbled to himself and shoved his face into the silky sheets—what was with the silk?—refusing to let himself wake up—Gibbs had kept them irritatingly late last night, and he'd had an old fraternity brother's stag party to attend after that—

He startled abruptly when a hand slipped over his back, nails softly pricking into his skin. The hand lingered there, and then shook him gently, squeezing. He opened is eyes wide, staring into the sheets—uh, had he gone home with one of those…?—well, there'd only been strippers at the party, besides his frat brothers—

He furrowed his brow and took a wary breath, trying to catch his bearings. He squinted hard, attempting to remember what had happened—why was his head so fuzzy, if he wasn't hungover, and he didn't have a headache? The sheets moved, and the pillow he was holding over his head was removed—and then he was hit in the back of the head with it, and he grunted—and that startled him, too, because his grunt sounded different—

The hand on his back slipped lower, and he tensed.

"Get up," a voice said, husky, tired, and yet—oddly familiar? He was shaken again, and then the overly familiar hand pinched his ass. "You have to go in before me. You know DiNozzo gets suspicious."

He froze.

_What_ the—_fuck_?

Very slowly, and very warily, very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo lifted his head, blinking pointedly, his body rigid and nervous. He stared down at the sheets—they _were_ silk, and shimmery, and very purple, and very _not_ his jersey cotton blue ones—and then he turned his head and locked eyes with a pair of emerald green eyes.

The redhead tilted her head and stretched, sitting up in bed—sheets slipped off of her, and he stared, his eyes widening, completely shocked—was he really seeing—he was looking at—

Jennifer Shepard, in the flesh—seriously, in the flesh, the completely naked flesh.

He let out a strangled shrieking noise and—

"Director, are you naked?" he squawked, jerking backwards—and promptly hitting the edge of the bed awkwardly and tumbling right to the floor.

He landed hard on his back, the breath knocked out of him painfully—he made a gasping noise and groaned, closing his eyes—he hazily remembered an exotic dancer sitting on his lap, dressed as a goddamn fairy—flirtatiously telling him all the wishes of his heart would come true, if she blew on him—and then (unfortunately) she'd blown some sparkly pink glitter on his face—flavored, if he remembered licking his lips—

So, uh, apparently, in his _heart_, he _wished_ to be Gibbs.

Well.

That was disturbing, not to mention painfully enlightening about his inferiority complex.

He opened his eyes, and green eyes were peering down at him. A cascade of red hair fell over her shoulders she leaned over the edge, surveying him with the same look she gave Gibbs—him?—when she was skeptical of what he'd said to her.

"I can cover up if you're offended, Mother Theresa," she joked dryly, a sheet held loosely to her chest.

DiNozzo blinked rapidly several times, staring up at her dumbly, and then he sat up, his head spinning, and looked down—fuck, he was naked, too, and well, that definitely wasn't his foot, and he didn't have a bullet injury in the knee, so that wasn't his and—well, _that_ wasn't his either, though apparently _it_ was interested in Jenny—

He put his hands up to his face—stubble—and then in his hair—short, and coarse, not fluffy, luxuriant and styled—shit, was he actually—

"Jethro," she said, frowning. "What the hell is the matter with you?"

_'Jethro'._

He was ... _what?_

"Nothing, ma'am," he said, and then winced. "Uh, nothing, Director. Madame," He tried again—well, shit, what did Gibbs call Jenny when they were—

"What did I tell you about calling me that in bed?" she growled.

He stared at her, mouth open stupidly again. Then he swallowed and tried to smirk in a…Gibbs-ish way.

"I'm not in bed," he retorted sassily. "…_Jen_," he tried.

She considered him intently.

"Are you having a stroke?" she hissed.

He must not have Gibbs-smirked successfully. He wiped the look of his face and mustered a glare. She cocked an eyebrow, and rolled over onto her back, her hand dangling off the bed. She beckoned to him lazily, and he glanced around him, panicked—what was he supposed to—?

Jesus _Christ_, couldn't he have woken up as—_McGee_? Then he'd at least have woken up alone.

He snorted to himself smugly, and then quickly composed his face, dragged himself up, and threw himself gingerly onto the bed, yanking the sheets up over him and laying on his side stiffly.

The Director—Jenny—Jen—yawned and pushed her hair back, arching her back and stretching. She closed her eyes and sighed, licking her lips.

"Get up," she mumbled. Her feet pressed against his affectionately under the sheets. He jerked his feet away, and she opened her eyes and gave him a sly look, shifting onto her side.

She looked at him for a moment, and then to his astonishment—horror—curiosity?—she was on top of him, her naked body tangled in sheets and stretched out over his. He stared at her with wide, eyes and kept his hands firmly plastered to the bed, shoving his head as far into the pillow as it would go.

She lowered her lips to his neck and started kissing.

"I know I tired you out last night," she murmured in a soft purr. She clicked her tongue. "It's no excuse for tardiness, Jethro. The agency will talk."

"Oh, like they don't already know you two are screwing," he snorted under his breath.

She jerked back, looking at him sharply.

"What?" she asked brow furrowing. "_'Screwing'_?" she quoted at him.

Gibbs must not use the words 'screwing.' DiNozzo swallowed, his mouth dry, and backtracked, trying to think of something clever to say. He couldn't, so he just stared at her, panicking—if he was in Gibbs' body, was Gibbs just wandering around as Tony DiNozzo—shit, was Gibbs going to wake up on Ziva's couch?-because drunk Tony sometimes ended up on Ziva's couch—

DiNozzo blanched, and his naked lady boss—well, apparently she was his boss's naked girlfriend—slapped him on the shoulder.

"What year is it?" she asked, as if testing him for a stroke.

"I don't know," DiNozzo retorted desperately, caught off guard, and Jenny frowned, sitting up.

He didn't even know what fucking planet he was on.

She pushed her hair back, lifting her arms above her head, and he let his eyes wander—technically, he wasn't being inappropriate, since she thought he was Gibbs—and Gibbs, he realized, as his heart rate sped up, was a seriously lucky man—her breasts were definitely real, he'd have to cancel his betting pool about that, and there was some impressive muscle in her thighs—

She squeezed him with those babies just as he was thinking it, and he jumped.

She ran her nails down his chest, pressing the heels of her hands teasingly into his navel.

"You said you could handle this, us, together again," she told him quietly. "I can't afford this getting out, Jethro."

She moved forward, and laid herself over him again, her lips pressing against his.

"You're acting abnormally," she murmured against his mouth, and he just stayed still, like—a dead fish or something. She kissed him again, and her eyes met his. She drew her lips over his jaw. "You have to get up, Jethro," she ordered again, sighing contently. Her jaw twitched into a smirk. "You think a blowjob will motivate you?"

DiNozzo raised his eyes to the heavens, his mouth falling open—and when she lifted her head to look at him, he silently prayed for forgiveness to God or—whatever stripper fairy with magical bodysnatching dust was listening—and he set his jaw and nodded solemnly.

Director Shepard started to shimmy down his body, and he put his hands behind his head, smirking—not exactly a conventional way to start his Friday, but hey, at least the supernatural events of pink flavored wish glitter afforded him hands-on, first person confirmation that Gibbs and the Director were doing it.

* * *

_NO, this is not being continued, no it's not a story, it's just a nonsense one-shot. _

_-alexandra_

_story #190_


End file.
